everything you feel is okay
by smileyfacebabe
Summary: Her hair is pink and her eyes are green and she gives you this look, book in hand, paper sticking oddly out of its pages, and you can't breathe. Words jumble in your brain and your heart races and you can't breathe when she looks at you. She's fifteen and you're twenty and nothing will ever be the same again. (ItaSaku, modern)


AN: This... This is terrible and it makes no sense, but the idea struck me in the chest, the idea of a modern day Itachi who is just a mess of jittering emotions and words and dreams and nervousness and I couldn't let it go. It's four am and I couldn't let it go and I've literally spent about twenty minutes hoping from poem to poem trying to find the right title for this poem. But yeah. (In case you're wondering, it's from an Andrea Gibson poem titled _Panic Button Collector_.)

AN2: This was supposed to jump forward and be like "oh look they're cute and together now", but I couldn't do it. Maybe later. But yeah. Here's this terrible second person thing. Enjoy.

Dedication: To anyone out there who has ever had this feeling. Also to Sonya. Because you graduated and you're rad.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Not even a shred of sanity.

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The first time you meet her, she's wearing a white sundress with red flowers, matching red clips in her hair. There's red lipstick faded on her lips, smeared at the corner the barest bit, and her nose in crinkled in disgust as your brother's friend loudly describes something. You spot them out the window first, her bright hair like a lighthouse in the fog, and for a second you swear you can feel the world shift.

You're passing through your hometown with your roommate on the way to a friend's house for the summer. He's sprawled out on your couch, groaning because your mother's made it her job to feed him until he bursts, and you spot her through the window (and then the world stops).

The front door opens and your brother comes in. On his heels is the blond, the one you faintly recognize from his middle school days. Behind them, eyebrows raised, is the girl with the bright pink hair and freckles. Your mother calls out a greeting from the kitchen and your brother responds as he shoots you a look.

Sasuke hasn't been happy to see you since he started middle school. You had hoped moving away for college would change that, but it looks like it hasn't. He glares, lips pursing, while the blond (Naruto, the name comes to you after several minutes of memory shuffling) glances between you two like you're both equally bad decisions in Minesweeper.

"Oi you two," the girl says, shoving against their backs (they've stopped in the living room doorway and they stumble under her shove and your heart skips again, because she's not just pretty, she's strong and that's inappropriate, she's Sasuke's age and you don't even know her name, but you can't help it, her eyes are green). Naruto squawks and your brother grunts, staggering out of her way, only for her to come to a complete stop in the doorway, her eyes locked with yours.

"Jesus Christ, that is some pink ass hair," your roommate mutters under his breath. Her face goes from confused and a little thunderstruck to annoyed in a second and she narrows her eyes, purses her rose red lips, and huffs.

"Says the asshole with the aqua blue hair," she mutters back, soft enough that your mother probably didn't hear her. Then, without another, word, she shoves at your brother and Naruto, directing them up to Sasuke's room so that they can finish their school project. Kisame's left gaping after her, one hand reaching up to touch his own hair, and you're not much better off, your insides curling for reasons you can't place.

You've never believed in love at first sight, but then she marches past you in the hallway, backpack slung over her shoulder, hair messily tied in a bun, and you consider the possibility of love at second sight instead.

"Oh, Sakura are you leaving?"

Your mother appears out of nowhere, her special talent. You and your cousin used to joke that your mother was a ninja in another life and you flash back to that thought as you flinch, startled. Sakura (what an appropriate name) startles as well, turning slightly to peer back around you. You had been heading out to your car to look for a book you couldn't find and you press yourself back against the hallway wall to give her room to look at your mother. She smiles at your mother after giving you an odd look, part annoyance, part suspicion, and you can't blame her, you really can't, but that doesn't change the way it twists your heart.

"Yes ma'am," she answers, shifting her backpack on her shoulder. "I've got to get home to help make dinner with my aunt."

Your mother purses her lips before glancing at the window. It's dark outside, you know that, and your brother is only fifteen, which means his classmate is likely only fifteen, which means she'll be walking home. You know where this is going, you're a car stalled on the train tracks and your door is jammed and your mother spots the keys in your hands and lights up with an idea that you know you can't get away from and it's like the blaring horn of your doom when she opens her mouth and goes-

"Oh, Itachi'll be happy to drive you home. He's Sasuke's older brother, visiting for a few days with his friend before he heads out for the summer. Itachi, be a dear and get this poor girl home, won't you?"

Sakura's eyes are on you and that suspicion as doubled and your stomach is in knots but you nod quietly, murmuring that you would be happy to take her home. Sakura tries to protest, but you've never seen anyone successfully turn down your mother (Kisame's seventeenth cookie proves this fact, as does his faint groaning from the living room floor, where he's turned into a twenty year old ball of over fed misery at the prospect of eating another meal with your mother) and Sakura is no different. So you both end up in your car, with its empty Starbucks coffee cup in the cup holder, the pens scattered across the passenger foot well, receipts shoved into the car door's little side pockets (did those even _have _names), and your radio, which is, embarrassingly enough, playing a mix CD of a bunch of pop songs because Deidara is an asshole who somehow purposefully got it stuck in there before you left for home and you're not even sure you're breathing at this point.

It's dumb, really. She's a fifteen year old girl and you're a twenty year old boy (man, you remind yourself; you're in school for law, you're an adult, you should be calling yourself a man now) and she shouldn't be able to turn your insides in jello, but she does. The girls back at school do this too, but never this quickly or this violently. Your cousin once told you that you were socially anxious and you'd looked into it once, but at the end of the day that wasn't something you could allow. So you swallowed back the panic that rose in your throat when you talked to people and you pushed yourself forward and you didn't let it stop you. But there was something about this girl, something fierce and dangerous and wild, and you find yourself trying to fit all the words you can to the color of her eyes and the way the slight curl of her lips as she speaks makes you feel while you drive.

"Turn left here," she says, gesturing slightly. Her nails are painted, glittering silver, chipped and smudged just the faintest bit. You swallow and take the turn without a word and she sighs, quiet and soft and somehow, through some miracle, you manage to get her to her house without crashing the car or making a fool of yourself. You pull up into the driveway and put the car in park, clicking the unlock button on your car door twice (because it's broken and you've been too lazy to get it fixed) and she climbs out quietly, smoothing down her dress as she does. She opens the back door to get her backpack and you start to relax, because it's over, she's going to walk in her house and you'll be free to pretend this didn't happen, but then she pauses, frozen there, and you're not sure why. Then she straightens, something in her hand, and your heart drops down to your toes.

"Is this yours," she asks, waving the book around. It was the book you had been looking for, dog-eared with a creased cover, pieces of paper sticking out of it at random points. She flips through it for a second, paper fluttering in the dark, and you can't breathe. She glances up at you, green eyes locking with yours, and you can't breathe.

Her expression does something strange and she squints at you. You realize she's waiting for you to answer you and you nod jerkily, lips pressed together to keep yourself from throwing up as the panic rises. Her eyebrows climb her forehead (which is slightly larger than you thought it was when her hair was down, but it's cute, it's cute and you hate yourself a little for that thought) and she glances back down at the book, something thoughtful in her eyes.

"I thought Sasuke said you were going to school for law," she muttered, mostly to herself. You swallow, desperately searching for your voice, and finally find it. It cracks and squeaks a little bit, but you find it nonetheless, arm reaching awkwardly to take the book from her.

"It's a hobby," you say, licking your lips nervously.

There's a version of this story where she crawls into the back seat of the car, fingers curled around your book, and looks you in the eye. This is the version you make up in your head later, the one that forces you to have a conversation with her. In this version she carefully plants the book back in your hand and says your name. (Instead she stands there, staring at you, something in her eyes that brings to mind will-o-wisps; haunting and tempting and dangerous.) In both versiosns of this story she licks her lips as well, tilting her head to the side before she speaks. She takes your breath away and all it takes is ten words, ten words no one has ever said to you before.

"You don't want to go to law school, do you?"

In this made-up version you explain that you are going to law because it's expected of you and she tells you what bullshit that is. She tells you to follow your dreams and that you're worth the chance and that one day everything will work out. But this is not what really happens. What really happens is you mutter out some excuse, one that probably goes along the lines of _law is my passion_ and stare quietly at the steering wheel while your heart pounds and your head aches and the back of your mouth takes like bile and panic. She doesn't say anything else as she shuts the door and walks up to her house, slipping in and leaving you sitting there in the driveway feeling like you've been drowned.

You go home. Kisame gives you a strange look, but he knows you. He doesn't ask you to explain and you don't offer explanations. You tell your mother Sakura got home safely, you eat dinner with your family (to the horror of Kisame, your mother insists you both have seconds, because _college starves kids and no one can live off ramen alone you know_) and then the next day you pack up the car and leave for the cabin that Pain had given you directions to.

It's not until you get a text message from a number you don't recognize do you notice your poetry book, the one of your favorite author where you keep all the scraps with your chicken scratch rough draft poems, is missing.

_These are good_, the text reads. That's it, nothing else.

You consider protesting, telling her that you are a law student, that you are going to go to law school and take over your father's firm, that you are going to make your family proud, but you don't. You save the message, because you are weak, and you pull your notebook closer on the couch and turn to a new page. Konan sticks her head in the house, eyebrows quirked at you, blue hair clinging to her neck and shoulders as it drips lake water all over the floor.

"Are you coming, 'Tach," she asks.

"No," you say. "I want to get a head start on the reading for my class next fall."

She groans at you, but disappears without a fight. You spend the next three hours filling your notebook with choppy, discordant, half-finished scribbling poems inspired by a girl with fire in her eyes.

(It is the first time you consider switching majors. You do not know it yet, but it not the last time you do.)


End file.
